


Perchance to dream

by Kass



Series: Doctor Who fanworks [27]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Dreamsharing, F/M, First Time, Post-Episode: 2014 Xmas Last Christmas, Sharing a Bed, Telepathy, Yearning, onlyonebed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:07:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3294899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We'll be warmer if we both sleep here," Clara points out. It's so eminently logical, he can't find a reason to disagree.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perchance to dream

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Only One Bed fest, winter 2015 - for cedara's prompt, "The alien inn has only one free double-bed - so the Twelfth Doctor and Clara have to share." (Except I made it a single bed, because it was more fun that way. :-)
> 
> Many thanks, as ever, to Sihaya Black for beta!

"I've seen worse," Clara says. It's as generous a statement as anyone could manage, under the circumstances. The room is clean, at least. The Doctor sees no signs of vermin. And once he sonics the door, it will stay closed until morning. They're as safe as can be. They just won't be particularly comfortable.

The Doctor eyes the narrow bed. "I'll take the floor," he decides.

"You'll do no such thing." Clara's tone brooks no disagreement.

"I'm not one of your schoolchildren," the Doctor objects.

"No, but it's cold in here, and you haven't got a coat, and you run cold anyway."

When did she notice that?

"We'll be warmer if we both sleep here," Clara points out. It's so eminently logical, he can't find a reason to disagree.

Though sharing a narrow bed with Clara will present him with substantial temptation. Still, it's nothing he hasn't borne before.

He still thinks sometimes (often) about what she said in their shared dream-crab hallucination, when he asked whether anyone had ever measured up to Danny. _There was one, but it never would have worked out..._ She sounded so wistful, he had wondered whether -- given a second chance -- they might do things differently. But since Clara rejoined him on the TARDIS, everything has been exactly the way it was before.

Which shouldn't have surprised him. He is someone one can safely pine for, from the seclusion of an earthbound life. But faced with the reality of him, prickly and difficult and two thousand years old (not to mention the nose; for all that he tries not to listen to anyone's thoughts, he can't help overhearing sometimes) -- well. Who could blame her for returning to their old default?

And now he's been woolgathering and he needs to say something or she's going to ask him what's wrong. "I don't need as much sleep as you do," he points out. "I'll likely just lie here solving equations."

"You do that," Clara agrees, toeing off her shoes and climbing into the bed. "As long as you're over here keeping me warm."

"You just said I ran cold," he objects.

"Keeping you warm, then."

He leaves his boots by the chair next to the door, tucking his sonic into the left one, and climbs into the bed. It takes a moment to get them both settled; he feels all elbows and knees. Clara is already generating heat. He has no intention of telling her how good that feels.

"We'll make it back to the TARDIS in the morning," he says instead.

"I know we will." Clara yawns. "But for now -- goodnight, Doctor."

"Goodnight," he says quietly, and closes his eyes, and slows his breathing to match hers.

He has no intention of sleeping.

* * *

The Doctor dreams.

He walks into the bedroom and there is Clara, resplendent on an enormous bed. The room is warm and she is wearing a short silk slip of a nightgown from which her décolletage peeks alluringly. Her knees are drawn up on the bed and she is reading a paperback book, though the moment he enters the room she sets the book aside.

He thrums with wanting. More than this body has ever wanted anything, he wants Clara. It's not the way it was before. He knew she was attractive, before. But that him hadn't stopped mourning Amy and Rory. This him -- Clara's was the first face this face saw. Perhaps he imprinted on her.

And it's been a power imbalance ever since. He doesn't want to need her, doesn't want to want her, but that's a battle he might as well admit he lost before it began. And right now he wants to open her up and install himself inside her, make her as aware of his every movement as he is of hers. To weave himself into her DNA. Failing that, to fuck her until all she can say is his name.

Some of those thoughts must be transparent on his face, because hers lights up. "Finally," she says, her thighs parting further. "Yes."

He won't need to be invited twice.

In the back of his mind he knows, dimly, that it would never be this easy between them. No awkwardness, no negotiations, no bristly misunderstandings: this can't really be happening. But she is spread out before him like an entirely willing feast, and for once he does not want to think this through.

It is the work of an instant to remove her silky panties, and then he is gliding his arms beneath her thighs and arse and lifting her to meet his mouth.

He begins delicately, tiny licks to help him gauge what she likes, where she likes it. How much pressure. Soon she is fisting the coverlet and whimpering. He is greedy for her little pleas.

He loses himself in her for a time. The lush feel of her, her taste, the cries he draws forth. His own arousal is insistent, but he doesn't mind. He can wait. The anticipation makes this even sweeter, because once he's made her come three or four times he is going to fuck her and she is going to fly apart and when she reassembles he'll be part of her. What they've done will be part of her.

He tries something different and she groans, her voice thick with desire. "Please," she manages. "Right there." He obliges.

When he pulls back and breathes gently over her, Clara shudders. "Don't you dare stop," she orders.

The Doctor moves his hands to her inner thighs, holding her open, and this time he goes right for her clit. Clara cries out, squirming beneath him. She is magnificent.

And she's close. He's surprised she's lasted this long. My stubborn impossible girl...

* * *

A thud outside their door snaps him to alertness. The Doctor blinks, for an instant disoriented, and then reality comes rushing in. He is clinging to Clara like a limpet, which might be forgivable given the frigid air in their quarters. He is also achingly hard against her arse, which might be less forgivable. Thankfully she's still sleeping, her breathing deep and even. He disentangles himself and rolls away as far as he dares without risking a fall out of bed.

His erection will subside in time. It's a natural reaction to sleeping in bed with another body. All right, maybe especially this one. Still, he can't remember the last time he's had such a spectacular sex dream. For a split second he contemplates whether or not he can take himself in hand without waking her.

No sooner does the thought cross his mind than Clara's breathing shifts. She stirs and whimpers, obviously unhappy, though the sound is sufficiently similar to the one in his dream that it only serves to make him harder. "No," she murmurs. "No, no, where'd you go?" There is distress in her tone.

A nightmare, obviously. From which he is going to have to wake her, though he doesn't relish the possibility of her noticing his reaction to her proximity. Maybe if he just whispers something it will soothe her while she sleeps. "Clara," he says quietly. "You're safe, it's all right."

"Doctor," she sighs, though her breathing is still deep and dreamy. "Doctor, come back."

He is seared by a sudden terror. Is it possible that as he slept wrapped around her, his subconscious mind pushed his better instincts aside and linked with hers? As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he knows it's exactly what he's done. He penetrated her dreaming consciousness. He intruded into her mind.

Worse than that: his mind overrode hers and made her accede to his will. Made her beg for it, even. He feels sick with himself, though the recognition doesn't seem to diminish his erection, which just makes him feel worse.

"Clara," he says, louder this time. "Wake up. You're dreaming." He gives her a little shake and she bolts awake with a gasp.

"Doctor," she says shakily. "Wait, I -- we were --"

"You were dreaming," he says again. He can't seem to help adding "I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?" Clara wakes quickly, he's noticed. She's already blinking off the remnants of her dreaming self, returning to the here and now.

"I shouldn't have -- I didn't mean to --" He fumbles for words, suddenly at a loss. Because how is he going to explain this in a way that won't illustrate the enormity of this betrayal?

"You didn't do anything," Clara says, obviously perplexed. "Although," she smiles a private smile, "I'm not going to tell you what I was just dreaming."

"You don't have to," he mutters.

Quick on the uptake, his Clara. Her breath is quick and indrawn. "Wait. That was actually you. In my dream," she says. It's not a question.

He closes his eyes, unable to face her. "I'm sorry," he says again. It isn't enough. It's all he has.

He flinches when Clara tucks her head against his clavicle. "Nothing to be sorry for."

The contortions required to keep his hips away from hers are going to give him a backache in short order. "I overpowered you." He doesn't want to be arguing with her. He wants to let her nestle against him, bodies touching everywhere, and rub off against her hip. He wants to find out how her breasts feel against the palm of his hand. But some inchoate sense of decency is getting in the way.

"You really didn't," she points out. "Consenting adult, yeah?" He can hear the smile in her tone.

His body wants desperately to take advantage of the fact that she's still under the control of the dream. His conscience knows that once she shakes off his influence, she would never forgive him.

"My mind is far stronger than yours." There's nothing for it but to plough ahead, though he doesn't want to. "I made you -- " Why is this so hard to say? He makes himself finish the thought. "I made you want things you don't actually want. It should wear off in a little while."

There's a lump in his throat, which is ridiculous. She will forgive him, he's quite certain. Because he made the ethical choice and told her what he'd done, and because he didn't do any of this intentionally -- she'll understand that. And if now, having denied himself for so long, he's given himself a cruel taste of what he didn't want to admit he desperately wanted, that's nobody's fault but his own.

"I think you're giving yourself a bit too much power." Clara's tone is teasing.

The Doctor feels a flash of anger that she's making light when he's just exercised such extraordinary self-restraint. "Time Lord brain, far more powerful than yours," he retorts.

"That's as may be," Clara tells him. "But you didn't make me want anything I didn't want already."

For once, he is at a loss for words. "That can't be," he says inanely.

"I think I'd know that better than you would."

"But Danny," he objects. He's so flummoxed he doesn't even call the man 'PE.'

Clara sighs quietly. "Is it so impossible to imagine that I loved the both of you?"

"No," he says, because that isn't actually a surprise to him. "But you can love someone without wanting to fuck them through the mattress." He's being intentionally rude, because he has to get this through her head before his willpower snaps.

"And vice versa," Clara notes. "But why not both?"

"Clara. Please." His voice is low. He feels desperate. He's not even certain what he's pleading for. For her to come to her senses, maybe. Or for her to stay deluded long enough for him to enjoy this, just once.

"Yes," she says, exactly as she did in the dream, and pulls him close. And then they are kissing, and their hips slot together, and he can't help himself. He groans into her mouth and she licks his breath away, her fingers finding their way to the buttons on his shirt, and he is lost.

* * *

When she frees his erection from his trousers he is nearly undone by the hot clasp of her hand.

And then she murmurs "hang on" and slides out of the bed. In the faint light from the half-moon he can see her unfastening her skirt and pushing it and her tights down and away. When she climbs back in, she nudges him onto his back and then kneels over him, her spread thighs on either side of his hips.

It is possible that there is not enough oxygen in the room. He presses at the base of his cock, almost sharply enough to cause pain, trying to slow his body's rush toward orgasm. Clara smiles at him, her face inscribed with feelings he can't bother to parse in this moment, and she shifts to take him in.

He'd thought her hand was hot, but it was nothing on this. Thirty-seven degrees centigrade, he thinks wildly. Not actually hot enough to melt anything, but as he thrusts up he feels afire with pleasure. Clara grinds down against him, and her every movement makes his toes curl.

In the dream he had anticipated fucking her exquisitely slowly, savoring her shudders as she came apart around him. In reality she's the one setting the pace and he's the one in danger of disintegrating.

He won't close his eyes. He wants to see her like this, moving over him. He wants to remember every instant, every flicker of pleasure crossing her face.

And then Clara leans down and murmurs "come inside me, I want to feel you."

He bites back a groan as his body follows her command.

His orgasm triggers hers. They hover, suspended out of time for an infinite moment, until they come crashing back down to this tiny room and narrow bed and she slumps onto his chest. His arms come up to embrace her. She sighs, apparently contented, and doesn't move. Making herself right at home.

Soon her breathing evens back into sleep. The Doctor lies awake, his companion in his arms, and stares at the ceiling, and wonders what the morning will bring.

* * *

In her sleep, Clara eventually slides off of him, and the Doctor moves her to the inner side of the mattress, nearer to the wall. He lies stiff and still along the edge of the bed and watches her sleep. And now that the two suns have risen and shafts of light are streaming in past the musty curtains, illuminating this room's plentiful dust, he is watching her wake.

He has done his best to steel himself against whatever this morning might bring. They're both adults; surely this won't be her first ill-advised one-night stand. Their friendship will survive what he made her want to do, he's certain of it. Fairly certain.

Almost certain.

Clara's eyes open and she looks at him. He remains silent: it's up to her to set the tone.

"Good morning," Clara says quietly. Her regard is serious and he can't read the emotion behind it.

"If you say so," he replies. Holds his breath, because that was more revelatory than he intended.

"Today we're going to find the TARDIS," Clara says.

"That we are."

"And I'm going to take a long hot shower," she decides.

"After this inn, you're entitled." Not to mention after what they've just done. Maybe they aren't going to talk about it. He can't decide whether that feels like a jail sentence or a reprieve.

"And then..." Her voice trails off and she holds her solemn expression for another instant before her eyes crinkle into a smile. "We could do this again on a bed that's actually big enough for two?"

The stone which had been weighing down his hearts is instantly gone. He feels an answering smile appearing on his own face. "If that's really what you want." He's trying to sound suave, uninvested, but suspects it came across more as wonder.

"I told you that last night," Clara chides him. "You didn't believe me."

"Can you blame me?"

"Yes, actually!" Clara looks indignant. "You've got an ego the size of a planet when it comes to everything except this?" She gestures between them.

"The size of a planet, that's not fair," he objects.

"Avoiding the point," Clara points out.

Fair enough. "You hadn't given me any indication until now."

"Neither had you. I didn't want to throw myself at you and be turned down."

As though that were likely. Though perhaps she'd thought that it was. Which puts her behavior in a new light. He'd thought he was leaving the ball in her court, when all along she was waiting for him to... he isn't sure where that metaphor goes, actually. "I'm not very good at this," he admits.

Clara's smile is self-satisfied and more than a bit smug. "I beg to differ."

And now he is blushing, he feels certain. "That's not what I'm talking about! I don't do boyfriend well."

"You're not my boyfriend," Clara corrects. "You're my Doctor."

"Is that so?" There is something charming about hearing it phrased that way, though he's not about to say that out loud.

"I'm reliably informed I don't do girlfriend well either," Clara points out. "I have a longstanding tendency to go gallivanting about the galaxy with a madman in a big blue box."

"You do, don't you." He wonders, for an instant, how many times Danny had said that to her. How much their travels had hurt Danny. He hadn't even thought of it, really. He ought to feel regret about that.

"So let's go find the big blue box," Clara urges, "and see where she takes us."

He can't say no to this. He doesn't want to say no to this.

"Please. Don't even argue," Clara adds.

He remembers saying those very words to her, after the dream crabs at Christmas. He remembers holding his breath until her grin and her kiss on the cheek and her obvious yes.

The Doctor sits up, swings his legs over the side of the bed, rummages for the ruined remnants of yesterday's clothing.

"Well?" Clara demands.

"Let's get moving," he says briskly. "We've things to do."

"That's a yes, isn't it." He can hear the grin in her voice.

"Of course it's a yes, do you think I'm daft?"

"Quite possibly," Clara teases.

He doesn't dignify that with a response. He stands, tugs his trousers on, and snaps his fingers. "Get moving, Clara Oswald."

"Oh, just because we're sleeping together you think you can speak to me like that," Clara faux-grumbles.

"I've always spoken to you like this," he points out, sitting on the chair by the door to lace up his boots. He doesn't bother averting his eyes when she gets out of bed.

"You're impossible," she agrees, retrieving her tights and sitting at the edge of the bed to slide them back on.

The Doctor sonics the latch to unlock it and steps outside into the cold air. "Makes us quite a pair," he says to himself. A moment of sentimentality.

He shoves his hands into his pockets, grins at the sky, and waits for Clara to emerge into whatever comes next.


End file.
